As childhood moves along, everyone eventually gets to middle school. To some, this is fine and wonderfully entertaining. I, Avery, know my middle school story is nothing of the sort.
--Meredith, age 12
I drop my body down into my seat. THUMP! Thumping sound that combines with the squeaking sound of the new bus seat. I look past the raindrops that look splatter painted onto the window. All I see is dark trees and roads and the occasional light from a house with a person living in that likes to be up at six thirty in the morning. The bus jerks to a stop and the door opens seconds later. A tall kid who must be in eighth grade because off his size steps on the bus. He walks to the back of the bus and goes right pass me. This is only my first day of sixth grade so I sit in the tenth seat back. I go back to staring out the window watching everything go by. About thirteen stops later the sun is almost fully up and I notice the bus is stopped at one of my friend’s house. He walks on the bus and sees me. He walks over and drops in the seat just as I did. He takes his backpack off and sets it on the ground next to mine. We wave to each other, but don’t actually talk. He must be as nervous as I am. I stare at the bus seat for another five minutes until I look over at him and try to start a conversation.
“What class are you in?”
--Ben, age 11
I sit with Grandma under the old willow tree. Today, she is silent. I am about to tell her a story, one she told me, three years ago. I think she’s smiling. She likes this story, I do too. But no one can tell for sure what Grandma thinks anymore. I lay my head on her cold, stone shoulder. If only Grandma could still speak. I begin.
--Kayla, age 12
It started like most things: an idea formed out of pure human creativity. Unless the idea comes from a child, then the idea is probably made more from the kid’s twisted sense of humor more than anything else. From that deep dark area of a kid’s brain were things are created by mutilation and mutilation is caused by things.
This idea seemed like a good one from the eyes of a fifth grade boy, tired of the summer’s heat and slowness. We were all sitting around at the schoolyard, boys and girls popular and not when Timmy Comache had the world’s most fantastic, stupendous, and overall completely ridiculous idea. He talked to the kids with a mad fire in his eyes finally he convinced and the dare war was decided.
--Aidan, age 12
I am Curt Courtesan. I am writing to you today so you can save MY LIFE! Let me tell you about my story of what happened to me before this catastrophe and how I am involved in this trouble! I got in trouble by stealing food from a bakery at 10pm yesterday... well it looks like you are still reading so I can trust you to help me. Now let me tell you my true story.
--Nkosi, age 12
“Stop!” I screamed. The shadow figure disappeared in the cold autumn night. Tears trickled down my tan cheek.
‘’Help!’’ “Help!” I cried out. But no one answered. The wind blew a breeze through the night. The ground turned cold and the trees swayed on the grass; but no sound was to be heard.
--Sophia, age 12
“Ummm…miss, what are you doing?” asked the librarian. I quickly snapped out of my daydream of riding a blue rhinoceros though a mine field, epically dodging the bombs as things exploded behind me.
--Kae, age 12
The howling wind whistled through the trees as if sending a message. It was a cold, December night in the old village. The portal would open in just five minutes. Everyone was waiting in the town square, circling the fire they had started.
I watch them, continuously kicking the ball back and forth through the frosted window. They play outside, in the small patch of greenery in front of our small suburban house. Soon they get tired of the bitter cold, and stumble inside. The smiles on their faces and the worry that flashes their eyes snap me back to reality, as I try to make sense of what my life has come to be. An empty pit that can only be filled by his presence, but no longer can I really feel safe in his arms. He can no longer be in our lives. But yet, I still see him every day, haunting my dreams, in pictures, even in their little faces I see the deep blue eyes that they got from him.
--Jaidyn, age 12
The early morning sun was shining through the window of Cassandra’s room. All was calm; all was perfect except . . . she was invisible. The night before Cassandra went to bed pondering upon what it would be like if she weren’t there. Now she would find out.--Ava, age 10